Course Corrections
by Pixie-Stories
Summary: Written for the JAG Ficathon on the HBX. The story prompt required a different ending to Adrift I and II.


**Title**: Course Corrections

**Author**: Pixie

**Rating**: PG

**Disclaimer**: JAG doesn't belong to me, nor am I making any profit. This story is for entertainment purposes only.

**A/N**: Written for the JAG Ficathon, this story was originally posted only on the HBX board. Now that the ficathon's over, I thought I'd post it here for those readers who don't read at the HBX. For those who aren't familiar with the concept of a ficathon, the basic idea involves an exchange of prompts and the anonymous posting of related short stories.

**Prompt**: A different ending to Adrift - one where Mac makes a decision to be honest with herself AND MIC, and sticks to it. And Harm realizes what he wants after his near-death experience.

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Telephones disassembled the human voice--turned it into electrical signals, bounced if off of satellites and through the air in ways she couldn't begin to understand, ways both mysterious and magical. Somehow her cell phone caught only the signals intended for her, performed its own magic, and suddenly words she'd never thought she'd hear were sending shock waves through her soul.

"Come to me."

She froze. The river of people split, flowed around her, and reformed, oblivious to her existence beyond its passing inconvenience. "Why?"

"So we can talk."

She hesitated, her thoughts tumbling over each other in a headlong rush toward the edge of... what? "We already talked."

"Don't argue with me."

Mac resisted the urge to stomp her foot in frustration. "I need a better reason."

His calm response held absolute conviction--and something else she couldn't quite identify, something that instantly calmed the white-water tumult in her mind. "You know the reason."

She did know. He'd never come this close before, never suggested that they actually face this thing between them head on. The question was--could she do it now?

"Mac..."

"I'm here."

"I'm waiting." The melted chocolate tones made her heart soar. It was what she'd wanted, a closely held dream edging toward reality after all this time. But could she have the dream? Did she even have the right?

Without answering him, she disconnected the call and turned, looking back at the departure gates. These past days had turned her life upside down, leaving her rudderless and disoriented. Harm's crash, the search, finding him but not knowing if he'd live or die... All of it had turned her careful plans into so much sawdust. Now Mic was gone, Harm was finally reaching out to her, and she was standing in the middle of a busy airport feeling rather like Dorothy must've felt when she'd found herself plunked down in Oz. How the hell had it all happened so fast?

She loved Harm--had loved him for years and would probably always love him. But after that humiliating night in Sydney, she'd tried to convince herself she could live without him. Unfortunately, Mic had paid the price for that bit of foolishness. The pain in his eyes as he'd looked at her that last time had been heartbreaking.

He'd been good to her, Mic had. He'd not asked for the treatment he'd received at her hands, and she didn't think she could live with herself if she didn't at least try to make things right.

It took an hour to make the arrangements, and only when she had the ticket in her hand did she call Harm back. He answered on the first ring.

"Mac?"

"Yeah."

"What's going on? I thought you were coming over."

She hesitated. Would he trust her? Would he understand? More importantly, would he wait for her? "I'm going after him."

There was a long pause. Then, "Why?"

"I can't leave it this way, Harm. He deserves better."

He didn't answer, and finally, desperately, she spoke again. "He's a good man."

"He must be," Harm said. "You're going all the way to Australia for him."

She bit her lip. "I went all the way to Russia for you."

He was quiet again, and she pushed ahead, needing him to understand. "He was right to leave, Harm. I couldn't have been the kind of wife he deserved." She paused, took a breath. "But he gave up his life for me. The least I can do is go down there and apologize properly."

"How long will you be gone?" His voice was subdued, but at least he didn't sound angry.

"As long as it takes."

A long moment passed, a moment during which Mac prayed he'd understand. Finally, he sighed. "There's something I need to take care of here, too," he said. "Something _I_ need to set right."

"Renee?"

"Yeah."

"Good luck," she said softly.

"You, too."

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By the time her flight landed in Sydney, her eyes were gritty from lack of sleep. As she waited her turn to disembark, she wondered if she'd done the right thing. Would he even see her? Or would he turn her away, refusing her attempt to make amends.

She sighed and stood up, gathering her small bag from the overhead bin. Regardless of what Mic's reaction might be, she had to do this. She wouldn't be able to move forward with her life--with Harm--until she did.

It took an hour to get to the hotel and check into her room, and another half hour to shower and change. Then she called a cab. She wasn't sure where Mic would be, but she knew he had friends in town. She'd check there first. Somebody had to know where he was.

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She'd thought she'd have to hunt for him, so when he opened the door at her first stop, she stepped back in surprise.

"Sarah," he said, obviously less than pleased to see her. "What the hell are you doing here?"

She swallowed hard, took a deep breath and answered him honestly. "I came to see you."

"Why?"

"Is there someplace we can talk?" She looked around at the busy suburban street. "Someplace a little less public?"

Several seconds passed while he considered her request, and she was half convinced he was going to refuse. Then he shrugged, stepped back, and waved her inside. As she brushed past him, the familiar scent of his cologne wafted over her, bringing back memories of happier days.

"Right," he said, closing the door. "You're in." He folded his arms and leaned against the wall.

Mac didn't know what she'd expected, but it certainly wasn't this cold distance. She took a deep breath. "I owe you an apology."

"I don't want your God-damned apology." There was more warmth at the North Pole than there was in his voice and eyes. "I don't want anything from you. Not anymore."

"Mic..." She reached out to him, but dropped her hand when he flinched away.

"I've known girls who were teasers and manipulators, but you..." He shook his head in disgust. "You're unbelievable."

"I never meant..."

"Never meant, what? To take my ring? To tell me you loved me? To lure me with empty promises and then humiliate me in front of all your friends?

"You don't understand."

He snorted. "Then why don't you explain it to me?" He moved away from her, into the other room.

Following him, Mac tried to organize her scattered thoughts. She'd hurt him. She knew that. She hadn't done it deliberately, but looking back she knew she'd used him, and she didn't honestly know if she could forgive _herself_ for that, much less expect _him_ to forgive her. Still, she had to try.

Mic stopped in front of a large picture window. He didn't sit down, so she didn't either. They faced each other across the room, and it occurred to Mac that the ocean she'd just crossed was narrower than the gulf that stood between them now.

"So when's the wedding?" he asked.

The question startled her. "Excuse me?"

"I'm not blind, Sarah. And I'm not an idiot, so don't treat me like one."

"I'm not!"

"Yes. You are." He turned away, staring out the window. "I always knew there was something between you, but when you took my ring I assumed you'd put it in the past." He turned back, giving her a look filled with pain. "You said you loved me. I thought that meant something."

"I do love you," Mac said, crossing the room. "I just... I guess I don't love you the way you deserve to be loved."

"And it took a rehearsal dinner and him ditching his plane in the Atlantic for you to realize it?" He shook his head. "I thought you were smarter than that."

She sighed. "Do you remember that night in Sydney? The night you gave me the ring?"

He didn't answer, just watched her in icy silence.

"I wasn't thinking clearly, Mic. I was upset and hurt and feeling sorry for myself. I came out with you that night half convinced I'd always be alone, that nobody would ever want me."

"So you decided to settle for me." He shook his head grimly. "I deserve better."

"You're right. You do. And I'm sorry." She felt tears well behind her eyes and blinked them away.

"Your trips down here, the good times we had, our engagement... Did you get some kind of sadistic pleasure out of keeping me dancing on your string?" He shook his head. "I bet you had a good laugh when I gave up my career and moved to the states."

A flash of defensive anger stiffened her spine. "I never asked you to do that, Mic. That was your idea."

"Because I wanted to be close to the woman I loved."

"But you didn't even talk to me about it. And once you were there, I felt responsible."

"It was my decision, Sarah. My choice. If you had a problem with it, you should've said something."

"I didn't want to hurt you."

His eyebrows shot up. "It would've hurt a hell of a lot less than having you dump me at the altar."

"_You_ dumped _me_."

"Would you rather I hadn't?"

The question lay between them, heavy with painful truths.

She hesitated. Then, knowing there was only one honest answer, she swallowed hard. "No."

"That's what I thought." He turned away. "I think you should go."

"Mic." She reached out, touching him on the shoulder. "I really am sorry."

He didn't answer, and as she turned to leave, tears streamed down her cheeks. What a mess she'd made of his life. Without ever meaning to, she'd damaged his career, his faith in women, and his ability to trust. He'd move on eventually, but he'd always have scars from the wounds she'd inflicted.

As she closed the door behind her, she dried her eyes and squared her shoulders. She hadn't been able to put things right, and he'd probably always think badly of her, but she'd apologized and done her best to explain. In the end, it was all she could do. It was time to go home.

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For the third time in as many days, Mac found herself knocking at a man's door. Her mouth was dry as cotton, and her pulse raced. What if he'd changed his mind? What if he'd decided not to break up with Renee? What if she'd misinterpreted the things he'd said at her engagement party, and it turned out he didn't really want her...that way? What would she do then?

With a sigh, she answered her own question. She'd survive. She'd be alone, but her experience with Mic had taught her that it was better to be alone than to settle for half a relationship.

Then the door opened, and Harm stood there wearing baggy sweats and a worn t-shirt, and suddenly it was all she could do to breathe, much less think rational thoughts.

He gave her a crooked smile. "Hey." Stepping back, he opened the door wide. "Come on in."

She stepped inside, and he closed the door and turned to look at her. "You okay?"

Nodding, she set her purse down on the counter. "You?" She wasn't just asking about his physical health, and by the look in his eyes, he knew it.

"Yeah." He took a step toward her. "Renee's gone home. She got a call that her father had died."

"Oh." Did that mean he hadn't broken up with her after all? She didn't ask. It wasn't any of her business, really.

"She got the call _after_ I told her it was over between us."

"Ouch." Mac felt sorry for the other woman. She'd lost her boyfriend and her father within the span of a few minutes. The pain must've been terrible. Still, Mac couldn't help the twinge of excitement that flitted through her at the news that he was free.

"Yeah." He stepped closer. The look in his eyes made her heart begin an insistent tattoo against her rib cage. _Thump. Thump. Thump_.

"So..." A few strands of dark hair, visible above the torn neck of his shirt, caught and held Mac's attention. _Thump. Thump._ "What now?"

"I don't know." The response, low and rough, brought her gaze up--neck, chin, mouth (oh God, that mouth)--a brief hesitation there--then onward to finally collide with those gorgeous eyes. The banked fire in their depths warmed her cheeks, and she almost missed his next words. "I guess that's up to you."

"Up to me?" Mac tilted her head, took a step..._thumpthump_. "Why do you say that?"

"Because I _know_ what I want." Harm said, and a shiver skittered up her spine. "But I _don't_ know what _you_ want."

"I want what every woman wants..." That smile, Mac decided, was just about the sexiest thing she'd ever seen.

He slid closer and his voice dropped. Its resonance vibrated through her heart. _Thumpthumpthump_ "A great career..."

They were just inches apart now, and Mac wondered if her grin looked as goofy as it felt. "A good man..."

"And lots of comfortable shoes." His eyes crinkled slightly at the corners, shimmering with gentle amusement.

"I've got the shoes and the career." She lifted her hand, rested it against his chest, and felt his heart beat against her palm, its rhythm as erratic as her own. "Been working on those for a while."

His chest rose, paused, fell beneath her touch. "And the man?"

She smiled, looking into his eyes. "I suppose that's up to you."

Lifting his hand, he slid one long finger through her hair and tilted his face slowly, too slowly, toward her own. She felt his other hand at her waist and gasped when his thumb brushed against her breast. That was when he took her, his lips capturing the small sound, taking it from her, swallowing it, demanding more.

His arms tightened, pulling her close in a single smooth motion that brought them together from chest to hip. She moaned at the contact and deepened the kiss, learning his taste and texture, satisfying the curiosity that had nagged at her since that ill-fated night on the admiral's porch.

The feel of him, all corded muscle and male power, made her arch her back, pushing her hips more firmly into the firmness of his. _Come to me_, she said with her body, _love me_.

In response, he gentled the kiss, ignoring her murmur of frustrated longing. He lifted his head and waited for her to meet his eyes. When he spoke, his voice was low, rough with emotion. "I won't be your rebound guy, Mac."

She blinked, nonplussed by the comment. What made him think...? Oh. Yeah. A week earlier she'd been planning to marry Mic. It seemed like a lifetime ago. "You aren't, Harm. He was."

He considered that, holding her gaze while he rubbed circles between her shoulder blades with the palm of his hand. At last, he nodded and started to close in for another kiss.

Putting her finger to his lips, she stopped him. "I won't be your rebound girl, either." It was only fair, after all, that they clear the decks completely lest they risk fouling the lines later on.

With a slow smile, he shook his head. "You aren't. Renee was."

She grinned suddenly. "What a pair we are."

He cupped the back of her head, tangling his fingers in her hair and drawing a random pattern on her skin with his thumb. Mac shivered. His touch was pure heaven. It was ice and fire, sunsets and moonbeams, and a butterfly just emerging from its chrysalis.

"Yeah," he said, pulling her close again. "What a pair."

With that he bent his head, brought his lips to hers, and made her forget Mic and Renee had ever existed. And when the world beyond this moment, beyond this sensation of warmth and love and passion, ceased to matter; when all Mac could think about was the way he tasted, the way he smelled, and the way it felt to be held so close in his arms; she finally acknowledged the truth... _This_ was the way love _should_ be.

The End

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_Let me not to the marriage of true minds_

_Admit impediments. Love is not love_

_Which alters when it alteration finds,_

_Or bends with the remover to remove:_

_O no! It is an ever-fixed mark_

_That looks on tempests and is never shaken;_

_It is the star to every wandering bark,_

_Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken._

_Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks_

_Within his bending sickle's compass come:_

_Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,_

_But bears it out even to the edge of doom._

_If this be error and upon me proved,_

_I never writ, nor no man ever loved._

_Sonnet 116, William Shakespeare_


End file.
